


quinoa, tongue tattoos, and little old ladies (or Jason and Tim's Adventure's In Grocery Shopping!)

by ohmcgee



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Trope Bingo Round 4, curtainfic, tw: Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3302774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tim is kind of a hipster foodie and Jason is hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quinoa, tongue tattoos, and little old ladies (or Jason and Tim's Adventure's In Grocery Shopping!)

“Look, if you’re going to make me come over to your McMansion every time I want a bootycall just because you can’t deal with my pets --”

“Termites and mold aren’t pets, Jason.”

“Hater,” Jason says, staring quizzically at a box in his hand. “Then you’re going to have to keep actual food in the house for post-coital munchies. What in the purple hell is kin-oh-uh?”

“It’s _keen-wah_ ,” Tim says with an air of pretension. “It’s a super grain.”

Jason stares at him. “Get your shit, we’re going to get food.”

“I _have_ food.”

“You have hipster bullshit that costs eight dollars a box that no one wants to put in their mouth. Come on, I’m starving.”

“Can’t you go by yourself?” Tim almost whines. “I hate going to the grocery store with you. Last time in the produce section you went off on an entirely too graphic monologue about the potential phallic uses of each type of squash.”

Jason smirks. “I’d had a lot of Red Bull that day.”

“You scared nuns,” Tim reminds him. “And small children, And _me_.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Just grab your coat. If you must know, I’d rather have a trustworthy face with me. They always make someone follow me around even though they think they’re being stealthy about it, like they’re afraid I’m going to rob the place or something.”

Tim watches as Jason slips into his black leather jacket, two glocks concealed in shoulder holsters beneath his shirt (just in case), then laces up and buckles his motorcycle boots that could probably crush a small, third world country beneath them.

“I can’t imagine why,” he mutters and grabs his hoodie on the way out the door.

 

***

 

Tim frowns as Jason pitches three boxes of PopTarts into the cart from the opposite side of the aisle. A woman with a small child in her cart glares at him.

“Smores flavored?” He ignores her -- long gotten used to people’s disapproving looks when in public with Jason -- and stares at the label on the back in horror. “How can they market this as breakfast food? It’s one hundred percent sugar.”

“I know, right?” The lady says, letting the kid grab her phone out of her hands to slobber on. At least it has a waterproof cover, Tim thinks, shuddering internally. “It’s like here, kids, have a diabetic coma.”

Tim snorts and looks up and down the cereal aisle. “Do they have anything _not_ coated in sugar or sprinkles or chocolate?”

The woman takes the phone out of the (baby? toddler?)’s mouth and he lets out a blood-curdling scream. Tim tries to shoot Jason a panicked, get me away from this loud, tiny atrocity look but he’s not paying him any attention. “Try the -- ugh --” she wipes baby drool on her khakis. “Organic cereal at the very end. Good luck!”

Jason walks up just as the nice lady is pushing her screeching offspring hopefully far, far away and smirks, tossing in a box of cereal - chocolate covered, with sprinkles. “Did you look at that poor baby? What did I tell you about that.”

“My face does not frighten children,” Tim snaps, taking the cereal out of the cart and putting it back on the shelf.

“ _Hey_ ,” Jason says and snatches it back up, holding it against his chest.

“You can’t eat that for breakfast,” Tim says firmly. “You’ll go into sugar shock before ten.”

Jason looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “You don’t eat cereal for breakfast,” he says, shaking his head as he sets the box back in the cart, tugging on the end of it to get Tim to follow him to the next aisle. “Cereal is a late night, post-crime fighting and or particularly calorie burning sex snack.”

An elderly woman stop and stares and Tim prepares himself for the coming lecture, but then she just looks at Jason and _leers_ and flashes Tim a look he’d rather not see on such a matronly old woman’s face, like she’s _congratulating_ him.

“Please stop talking,” Tim groans and leans onto the handle, head in his hands.

Jason grins and throws another package into the cart. Tim peaks at it through his fingers, almost afraid to see what it is. “Fruit Roll-Ups, really? Are you actually eight years old?”

Jason shrugs and adds another box to the cart, just to make Tim’s eyebrow twitch, he’s pretty sure. “Do you have any idea how many artificial colors and flavorings and--”

“Yeah but,” Jason says, tapping the box. “Tongue tattoos.” He waggles his tongue, then he’s moving along, ignoring the giant vein trying to burst out of Tim’s forehead.

“Look, I’ll meet you in the middle,” Jason says on the drinks aisle as he picks up a case of diet soda. “See? Healthy.”

Tim looks horrified. “No, absolutely not.”

Jason frowns in confusion. It’d be cute if Tim wasn’t completely running out of patience.

“Diet soda is _horrible_ for you, Jason. The artificial sugar they put in it,” he physically shudders. “They’ve done test on lab rats that show--”

“They should do tests on _you_ ,” Jason mutters, putting the case back on the shelf before TIm has an actual stroke in the middle of the store, then walks over to grab the last thing on his list. When he turns around, Tim’s nose is all scrunched up and he looks like he wants to cry.

“ _What_.”

“Nitrates--”

Jason glares. “It’s hot dogs, man. _Hot dogs_. Is nothing sacred to you?” He throws his hands up and stalks off toward the self-checkout.

 

***

 

“What am I eating?” Tim eyes the sandwich (on the white bread that Jason had to get because all Tim keeps in the house is “multigrain cardboard shit”) Jason slides in front of him suspiciously.

“I made you a sandwich,” Jason says. “So eat it.”

“You’re not going to at least tell me what’s in it?”

“Nope.”

Tim sighs and takes a bite. It’s creamy, peanut buttery, sweet, and sticks to the roof of his mouth in that annoying way sandwiches do. He’s not used to so much sugar though and can feel a headache come on nearly instantly. Still, it’s not the worst thing he’s ever had.

“What is it?”

“Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich,” Jason grins. He looks so proud of himself that Tim takes another bite. “Alfred used to make them for me, when I’d get home from school.”

Tim feels his chest tighten the way it always does when Jason mentions the past, when he lets his guard down long enough to admit he still has a few happy memories kicking around in that damaged, broken head of his.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, reaching into fridge. “This was the best part,” he twists open the cap on a glass bottle Coke with his shirt and hands it to Tim, then grabs one for himself.

“It’s not _organic_ or made with fuckin’ stevia or whatever,” Jason says. “But it’s, you know, comfort food.”

And Tim gets it, finally. Jason can use all the comfort he can get. He raises his bottle up and clinks it against Jason’s, smiling, and says, “You know, it’s been forever since I’ve had a decent chili dog.”

Jason’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. One day of eating over-processed, chemical laden shit won’t kill him, right?


End file.
